


We Survived

by girlofthemirror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Job, Episode: The Abominable Bride, John Watson's danger boner, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Sherlock Holmes, TAB compliant, first time blow job, inside the cab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlofthemirror/pseuds/girlofthemirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Answering two of the important questions left from The Abominable Bride.....</p><p>1. When Dr Watson was talking to the paper vendor - where did Holmes poke him to make make him jump so much?<br/>2. When they got back to Baker Street - what was in the hat box?</p><p>This is celebratory, thesis submission smut. I do hope you enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Survived

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ariane Devere for her [gorgeous transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/81144.html). Do come and say hello on [tumblr](http://girlofthemirrorjohnlock.tumblr.com/), if you are so inclined.

John had been vibrating with energy the whole journey home. A thrilling chase, an amazing hunt. A fight, an arrest!

The train carriage was crammed full, an elderly lady knitting (with her elbows out) a nanny with three young charges and Sherlock Holmes smirking at Dr John Watson he fidgeted in his seat, all of them packed into a carriage intended for six.

It had been such a long time since Sherlock had seen this wonderful sight, his Watson enjoying the aftermath of an adventure. Their shared excitement a physical presence between them. He’d returned from lonely years battling Moriarty’s empire to find John engaged to be married. John had been so angry with him, they had hardly seen each other for months. He had looked so thin and drawn and sad. But now, here was John opposite to him and shinning with happiness.

The Hertfordshire train pulled in to King’s Cross promptly. The nanny and her charges making a terrible fuss as they came up to the platform. Sherlock could see how much John longed to be back at Baker St (just for this moment he would allow the implication that it was where John still lived, it was where he so obviously belonged). John clearly shared his thoughts – he was brusque with the young woman, aware that he ought to offer his aide but quite clearly reluctant to do so.

Ten minutes later, they were finally alone in a cab. Sherlock was well aware that their time was limited. The journey back to Baker Street only one mile, one thousand, two hundred and thirty yards. Sherlock instructed the driver to go via Regent’s Park, ostensibly to see the half settling snow – actually to give them an additional 700 yards equating to eight minutes (potentially more – he looked like the sort to be interested in snow. A ribbon for each of three daughters in his breast pocket suggested sentimentality, and the sentimental were always keen on snow. Perhaps as much as an an additional twelve minutes was possible).

Alone in the rapidly warming confines of the Hansom they faced each other. They had so rarely been alone since Sherlock’s return. Mary had intruded at first, but they had seen less and less of her. Accepting (even mediocre) cases as a method to spending time in John’s incomparable company had helped with that problem, but there had still been Lestrade, Jones even that idiot Anderson intruding upon them.

Now, with his face red from the cold and the excitement chasing through his veins, Watson turned to look at him. He licked his lips “Good case.”

“Indeed” Their brief speech only underlined the tension.

It had happened less than a handful of times before Sherlock had left (been forced to leave). After a case, there had been energy singing through them (like vibrato in third - high, sweet and intoxicating). Watson said once, offhand – _“did you know what the enlisted men would sometimes do after a battle – just to prove they were alive?”_ Their fragile, fledgling progression completely halted by Sherlock’s enforced exile. Now here they were again. Just looking at each other. John licked his lips once more and (as he always used to) said “There was a fight, Holmes. And we survived it” John made a move to settle against the seat as though he meant to do nothing more than reminisce.

Sherlock could not allow it. After months of time, getting back to easy intimacy had nearly killed him (cultivating friendships, even with John, was really not his area. The first time it had just happened, he had no idea how to deal with John’s anger). He knew that John was technically a married man, but he didn’t care. He had waited long enough. He had sacrificed two years to keep him safe. Though in the past it had always been John who had initiated things between them, today it was Sherlock. Willfully ignorant of the danger (for once) uncaring as to public opinion (as usual) and joyously exuberant, Sherlock turned to John.

He winked (he’d been told once it made him seem human) and bent to his knees. From here he would be invisible to the outside. One of the times before had been a little like this, a risk of being caught combining with the danger of the case had left them both aching with want. John was clearly aware of what he was proposing, and for the first time in three long years he heard his own, private name on John’s lips: “Sherlock” he said, his voice choked, barely as loud as a whisper.

“Let me.” Said Sherlock, a statement, not a question. But John nodded as though it had been.

Sherlock bent his head to John’s lap. Smelling clean wool and under that, arousal. He could see John become more erect as he watched. The pressure on his trouser buttons tantalising. Sherlock was quite aware that they didn’t have a chance to wait (and he was still not quite sure what John wanted from this – always that same introduction on each of the four previous occasions – “We survived”, after that fact had been proven was there anything else between them?). Now was not the moment for distractions. Three years ago, they had only just started perhaps now he would never know what else there had been simmering between them. Everything had been ruined by his absence…. But now was absolutely not the time. John was in front of him and there still remained approximately eighteen minutes of blissful, private, time.

His hands were like ice, the cold day leaving the tips of his fingers blue (the Belfast Cape was not just an affectation). He undid the buttons at John’s trousers. His cold fingers stumbling. He could see his own breath in front of him. He felt light – brightened up and fizzing with energy. He smiled, broadly at John who only looked at him softly (that look he had reserved for their moments alone, he remembered it over the fire in Baker Street, that look that said maybe he wasn’t just tolerated, maybe he was cherished).

“Oh God, don’t tease me” said John, his breath already a little short.

It was cold still and Sherlock could not bear the thought of John flinching from him (even if it was not to do with him, only the temperature). So for the first time in his entire life, he bent his head down into John’s lap. The buttons were completely undone and John’s prick was hard and outlined against his woollen winter drawers. He bent down to feel the texture of the worsted against his lips and mouthed over the head of John’s cock.

But John was quite correct, Sherlock had no interest in teasing him. He used the tips of his fingers to pull the front placket to one side and using his mouth, took the head of John’s cock. He moved the fabric to the side. John fidgeted, keen to help Sherlock at his task.

The sensation was indescribable (a lack of precision not usually something that Sherlock was keen on). But he would take any number of new and confusing experiences for the feeling of John, hard in his mouth. He had the most vulnerable part of his Watson right in his mouth. He had once measured his canines (as part of a representative sample, could teeth be used to identify someone - intriguing) and knew that they were nine sixteenths of an inch long (the average was seven for a man). John was trusting him to have his unusually long teeth against his penis. It was incredible.

John reached down to put his hand through Sherlock’s hair, heavy with Macassar. He bent to the task in front of him. Not entirely sure of how this sort of thing was meant to proceed, but aware of the general rules for such engagements. He sucked gently at the tip, nervous at the idea of gagging. His jaw adjusting to John’s girth. He flicked his tongue across John’s frenulum and was rewarded with a groan. He felt immediately as though he had won a race – he remembered this sensation from all those years ago. The feeling that he could evoke this kind of awe in John had been startling from the first and to create it in such a moment as this was wondrously even better.

“Please… Sherlock…. ” said John, breathy and low

Sherlock had no interest in making him beg, no desire to see John anything other than fulfilled. It had been too long. Sherlock was as inpatient as ever. He sucked a little harder and braved moving his head down. Taking more of John’s length into his mouth and then bobbing back up. He had never expected this, never expected that he would be on his knees and so powerful. He had thought (endlessly) about John. After their incidents in the last few months before he had left and in the solitary years alone – the idea of giving John this had surfaced (repeatedly). But he not understood how it would feel. He felt as though he had conquered an invading army. His Watson, his very own John was in his mouth. He could feel his pulse, the quiver in his thighs as John tried to restrain himself from any movement.

Forgetting the cold he moved his hand to John’s leg to feel the curve of his quadriceps. Moving his head a little faster he continued to lick at John’s slit as he came back to the head of John’s erection on each pass. He could taste John now. Sour on his tongue, but thrilling. Glorifying in John’s reactions, Sherlock adapted his technique. His tongue cupping the glans got a small moan. Tight suction a gasp. As in all things, John was decisive. He did not care so much for the gently flick against his frenulum, he preferred the bold the brave the unexpected. Or perhaps this was what John liked when he was fresh from their very own battle – the one they waged against the criminal classes. Would Sherlock ever know what John preferred when he woke up on a summer morning or when he was relaxing with his pipe?

The carriage slowed as they approached the South East corner of Regent’s Park – more than half way home (Sherlock still could not bear to think of it in any other way than as their home). John was slumped down slightly on the bench to give Sherlock access. His breaths coming in short pants. His beautiful (they were objectively beautiful, there could be no argument on the matter) thighs tense and his small hands stroking through Sherlock’s hair, not pulling but nevertheless firm tugging (Sherlock had never known that could make his entire scalp sing, the sensation building in him as well as John).

“Papers, papers!” cried out an unmistakable voice.

The paper seller was a long acquaintance and Sherlock knew his voice immediately. He backed up letting John out of his mouth (he immediately missed the feeling, who could have guessed – this was the least dull thing he had done in an age). “Will you ignore him?” He said, smirking “Not like the polite Watson I know." John smiled down at him. He caught the joke, both of them remembering the one time flushed in the alley as they waited for the Yarders to come pleased and excited and proving that they had once again survived and John took the bait.

John leant slightly out of the window and shouted “Here!” to slow the driver.

Sherlock licked, luxuriantly from the base of John’s erection to the tip as a reward. Adoration rising within him as he could see the effect it had on John. Without quite realising what he was doing until the action was completed he ground his own palm against the front of his Tweeds. John saw his unmistakable shudder and rather than returning them to solitude – raised the stakes (could Sherlock want him any more? The game was good, the thrill of it together wholly extraordinary).

“How’s the Blue Carbuncle doing” called out Watson, managing a surprisingly jovial tone.

“Very popular, Doctor Watson. Is there gonna’ be a proper murder next time?”

“I’ll have a word with the criminal classes.” Said Watson, dryly. Sherlock was aware just how much they both loved a proper murder. To reward his remarkable cool under pressure Sherlock held the head of John’s penis in his mouth, lapping at the underside.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Now pointing at the Hansom he added, “Is that ’im? Is ’e in there?”

Now this was getting quite out of hand. The game was spectacular (and as ever, his Watson could rise to the occasion) but this was hardy the time for chit chat (was there ever a good time for dull idle chat?)

Sherlock moved both his hands to John’s thighs, then remembering how much he would touch himself sometimes after their brief moments together he licked his right index finger and reached back, under John’s balls to put an ice cold finger against the pucker of John’s arse.

“No. No, no, not at all….. Ah, good day to you.” John managed to squeeze out. But as ever, he amazed Sherlock as the cab pulled on, he did not retreat. Sherlock’s rapidly warming fingers pressed hard against John’ perineum. He squirmed even further down giving Sherlock more access, his legs wide apart.

“Sherlock, My God” John whispered. Looking almost awed. Sherlock immediately wanted to frame that tone of voice. Record every minute detail of John’s face as he looked at Sherlock in such a soft way. He was unsure even his mind could capture it and felt momentarily sad. Shaking off his distraction he decided he would just have to guarantee a repeat occasion (a good case, a daring escape – which were they the crucial ingredients? Sherlock felt distressingly unsure).

Unable to wait a moment longer (patience had really never been his forté), sharing only a quick moment for a smile (that he had no idea was coming, but didn’t even want to avoid as it appeared). He bent to John. He was done with games now – they had played, they had won and now it was time to prove they survived. He swallowed John down, slightly ambitiously. Stifling a gag, he pulled back. But kept plunging back – sucking hard now and moving faster. His right index finger teasing against John’s arse. His left hand mashed hard against himself and rocking back and forth, matching his rate against John. They didn’t have far to Baker Street and Sherlock could not countenance them idea of them having to stop.

Ever resourceful, John pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket (shifting slightly) and handed it to Sherlock. For a moment, Sherlock was unsure why. Then he realised that John intended for him to catch his spendings in it. An entirely unwarranted politeness. Quite without any intention, Sherlock had been dreaming of this moment for four years. There was absolutely no stopping him now, John’s hands perfectly firm and sure in his hair, grounding him. In a flash of genius (any thought at all surely counted as genius is moment such as this), Sherlock remembered that there were two potential sources of mess. One handed, he undid the button at the front of his trousers. He held himself tightly and with only two firm pulls could feel himself falling over the edge. Savouring the taste of John on his tongue he came, shaking he pulled back for a moment to pant out a breath. But seeing John he couldn’t wait another moment. Not with John staring at him as though he had solved the audacious murder of his career.

Sucking hard (as he now knew that John loved) it took only another 20 second, sloppy and wet with Sherlock’s post orgasmic waves still making him clumsy. John’s hips thrust up slightly and he bent over at the waist and then he was coming down Sherlock’s throat. Several powerful contractions shook him. After a slight mishap with swallowing, a little of John’s spending leaked from the side of his mouth. John leant back, eyes closed – a picture of bliss. Sherlock wiped the side of his mouth with John’s handkerchief inordinately leased to have their seed mingled on it).

They were rounding the corner from the Outer Circle onto Baker Street. And suddenly, just as they did all those years ago after chasing a cab around Soho (they had shocked the driver, but the horse had seen them coming), they were laughing. Sherlock hefted himself up next to John, stretching out his long legs. Both of them, giggling leant back against the seat with their trouser buttons undone.

John looked toward him and kissed him, once, soundly on the mouth. Then pulled back (he looked shocked, why would that shock him?).

Still chuckling Sherlock said “Best clean up Watson, we timed that rather perfectly, I think”

The world was a mess – John was married, Baker Street was too empty cases hard to come by. But in that moment, Sherlock didn’t give a damn. He poked the soiled handkerchief into John’s hat box. Then set about lighting his pipe and fixing his clothes. There would be time for solutions. Surely the world would see they belonged in Baker Street, together. Maybe there would be another adventure, another opportunity to show each other that they had survived (and Sherlock hardly even dared hope) perhaps a moment to be just them. To kiss as they just had. Perhaps there would be any number of moments. The earth kept turning on its axis, spinning with John as his own personal centre. Who could tell what might come.

**Author's Note:**

> I handed in my PhD Thesis yesterday (on baby cows - you should be nice to baby cows, they are lovely). In my acknowledgements I thanked my supervisors, my fellow PhD studends, my family. But I didn't thank johnlock fanfic. And in many ways, I should have done. In this year of business and tiredness. Whist I was combining writing up with caring for my baby, fic has been wonderful. It has been my balm. My five minute break, my company on long nights feeding a baby, my escape from statistics.
> 
> So this fic, is for my thesis. I give you 3k of thesis submission smut, written one paragraph at a time as a break from the final push of corrections and panic and remaking plots to fix the axis labels.


End file.
